


The Weekend, Overnight

by rufeepeach



Series: Time Of Day [14]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:36:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle is trying to avoid Mr Gold, but girl's night doesn't really work out for her. They end up at his place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Saturday, Midnight

“Alright,” Ruby sat back against the headboard, and brandished two DVD cases, “Are we drunk enough yet for Legally Blonde? Or should we go for 27 Dresses?”

Belle knocked back the last of her drink, “Neither. Can’t we watch something cool, Rubes? Something not pink?”

“I like the pink.” Ashley protested, quietly, “I mean, Sean won’t watch them with me and the baby-“

“You want to watch The Full Monty again, don’t you?” Ruby narrowed her eyes at Belle accusingly, “Are you drunk enough yet to tell the truth?”

“Ugh,” Belle threw up her hands, “Fine, let’s go for Legally Blonde. At least that’s funny.”

“Oh, no,” Ruby shook her head, and switched off the TV entirely. The room was silent for a moment, the three of them sprawled on the Inn’s largest suite’s double bed, with Ruby and Ashley against the head and Belle horizontal at their feet. Belle’d thought - fool that she was - that a girl’s night with lots of booze would cheer her up: she’d been wrong.

She kept staring at her phone. He never called, never texted - he acted like he was from the dark ages or something - and yet she couldn’t help it. It was that or go and see him, and that she wasn’t willing to do.

“We’re doing this now.” Ruby sat up, stared down at her, and Belle rolled her eyes.

“Uh, doing what?”

“Talking about it. You. Gold. Whatever sexy thing is between you.”

“Oh, gross!” Ashley cried.

“What?” Belle looked at her, frowning, and then it hit her, “Oh, shit, yeah, that thing with Alexandra and the contract and everything.”

“The bastard tried to steal my baby.” Ashley stared at her, “So I really hope you’re not…” Belle tried to prevent the guilt from flashing across her face, but it was too late, “Oh, EW!” Ashley shook her head, looking as if she might be sick, “Please, please spare me the details!”

“Spare her,” Ruby grinned, wide and wicked, “Tell me everything.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“There’s totally something to tell.”

“I’m going to go call Sean.” Ashley decided, standing and swinging her legs over the side of the bed, “Check on Alex. Call me back when it’s safe.”

“Wimp!” Ruby called after her retreating back, but Ashley didn’t even turn.

“Can we just call her back and watch the movie, please?” Belle pleaded, “There’s honestly nothing to tell you. Mr Gold and I are friends, I guess, and that one time he was only getting my books for me because he hates everyone and likes to mess with people. I was an excuse. Nothing more.”

She didn’t have to feign the little dismissive, almost bitter note in her voice. Nothing more was right.

It’d been less than a week since she got over her cold and cried for him all night. Luckily, her streaming eyes and clogged nose could be blamed on the bug and not heartache - her heart should never have become involved; she saw that now - and so still no-one was any the wiser. Not even Gold. Especially not Gold.

She didn’t even think of him as ‘Rum’ anymore, and wouldn’t call him that even to his face. He was Mr Gold, and to think differently would only lead to more crying. Belle was sick of crying already.

“Uh huh,” Ruby raised an eyebrow, “Sure. Okay.”

“Why would you even think that?” Belle’s anger seemed to be projecting itself elsewhere, and she couldn’t care less, “I mean, really?”

Ruby shrugged, “He didn’t look evil when I saw you together. I assumed you’d sexed the bad right out of him.”

“No one could do that.” Belle muttered, and Ruby crowed with victory.

“I knew it!” She bounced and clapped her hands, and Belle ran a hand over her face in defeat. A week ago, she could have lied through her teeth: apparently alcohol and misery were enough to break even the careful little lies she’d held for so long. “Now I want details!”

“We’re. Just. Friends.” Belle enunciated, “Not even that, anymore.”

“Yeah, naked friends.” Ruby muttered, and then caught something, “Wait, anymore? What happened?”

“I told you: he’s an evil bastard. I thought… oh god, I don’t even know what I thought.”

“Did he turn you down?” Ruby made a face, “Oh, honey, did you not even make it to naked?”

That was the perfect lie, presented on a silver platter, and Belle so desperately wanted to reject it. To tell Ruby everything, the whole miserable, wonderful story, and let it go. To have someone else understand why she was becoming such a mess.

But she wasn’t brave enough for that. It would be easier to keep the pain - stupid, insubstantial, shadowy thing that it was - at bay by keeping it silent. If she didn’t say it out loud, didn’t have someone else confirm it, then things could stay as they were. And she could get over whatever emotional crap this was, and go back to smiling as she had her meaningless way with him. 

“Yeah,” she nodded, lying through her teeth and horribly good at it, “I… we’ve been hanging out for the past few months months - he was teaching me to cook, actually - and Monday night…”

“You told me you were sick Monday.” Ruby’s eyes narrowed, “You could’ve told me the truth!”

“I didn’t want to jinx it.” Belle smiled, because it was a little true. Monday she had tested him by seeing if he’d come to her even if she wasn’t willing to fuck him. And, wonderful bastard that he was, he’d passed, and for the almost the first time since they’d started their little arrangement, when the clothes had come off they’d been tender and sweet to each other.

And then he left without so much as a ‘thank you. She’d half expected him to throw money at her, she’d felt like such a stupid, easily-lead little whore.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I invited him over and we chatted for a bit…” it had been lovely, the part before the sex, when he’d been so nice to her, “And then…” she swallowed, the lie so much more embarrassing than the truth, because honestly, when she’d thrown herself at him that first night, he’d been more than willing to fuck her senseless against a pool table, “Then I climbed on his lap and started kissing him, and he pushed me away and left. He wasn’t too nice about it, either.”

“Bastard.” Ruby muttered, swallowing the story hook, line and sinker. Belle sometimes hated herself for taking advantage of being the ‘clever one’ of her friends (although none of them made it out of this blasted little town, now did they?) but at least it came in handy sometimes. “Have you seen him since?”

“I… no.” She had missed their Wednesday meeting. Not just missed, but actively avoided: she’d gone to the park (to the place she went when her mama died, as a matter of fact) and curled up in her secret place behind the bandstand. He didn’t find her, because how could he?

He wouldn’t have been looking, anyway. If he missed her outside the library, if he waited for her to burst into his home or his shop, if he’d come by her house and found her gone, then he’d given no indication to her afterward.

She couldn’t go along with him, this week. Next week she would (she missed him too much not to) but on Wednesday she’d worn her thickest wool cardigan and hardest boots, jeans and a long t-shirt, no make up. She’d gone out of her way to show herself - and anyone who cared to look - that things were different that day. 

He hadn’t seen her, so far as she could tell, but she’d felt less like running to him when she looked and felt so unsexy and plain.

“Jeez…” Ruby sat back, “Who’d have thought Gold was a gentleman?”

Belle gave an odd little laugh, bitter and sharp, “Oh, he’s not that. I never said he was kind about it.”

“Still, not taking advantage. Maybe you should marry him or something, then he’d do the business?”

“He wouldn’t have been taking advantage!” Belle almost shouted (it was a lie, no need to get so het up, but she couldn’t help it) “I started it.”

She had, at that. And somehow, even with the pains in her chest when she thought about him, the knowledge that he didn’t love her and never would, and the uncertainty over what would happen the next time they met up, she didn’t regret a moment of it.

“Is it safe to come back in?” Ashley called, and Belle rolled her eyes.

“It was safe the whole time, Ash!” She called back, and a moment later the door creaked open and Ashley came back inside.

“Sean’s put Alex to sleep, he’s watching the game. The Indians are winning.”

“Belle’s in love with Gold and he’s an asshole.” Ruby informed her, as if she were reporting the weather.

“Oh ew!” Ashley shook her head and took a long slug of her drink, “You said it was safe!”

“It was.” Belle said, dully, “Ruby bullied me, we agreed that Gold is, in fact, a complete bastard, and then you came back. You want to disagree with any of that?

Ashley stared at her, and then sighed, “Nope, I guess not. That man gives me the creeps anyhow.”

“Belle’s in love with him.” Ruby added, helpfully, and Belle wondered if she could managed to murder her and make it look like an accident.

“I am not in love with him!” Belle cried, and she wondered how many lies it would take before her tongue turned black.

“Leave him, Belle.” Ruby said, gently, “When I saw you guys, he didn’t look like he wanted to hurt you… I mean, he always looks ready to smile while stabbing the shit out of someone, but not with you. But if he doesn’t want what you want, maybe it’s time to just drop it. Find someone who does?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Belle grumbled, but Ruby’d hit closer to home than she’d have liked.

“Of course I don’t.” She smiled, smugly, “Now, still in the mood for Legally Blonde?”

“You got Saving Private Ryan around here anyplace?” Belle asked, “Or maybe something with lots of blood and guts and dying?”

“What’s gotten into you all of a sudden?” Ashley asked.

Belle just gave her a look.

“Oh, right.” Ashley nodded, “Sorry.”

“I think I have some weird cannibal movie around here somewhere,” Ruby said, thoughtfully, “People leave the strangest stuff when they move on. I think it was Graham’s.”

“No!” Ashley shook her head, “Girl’s night means pink things, you promised! No cannibals or werewolves, thanks very much!”

“I thought you liked Twilight.” Belle sat up on her elbows and frowned at her.

“Jacob’s different.” Ashley replied, “He’s not scary.”

“His acting is.” Belle muttered, but Ruby smacked her with a pillow to shut her up.

They ended up with something Belle didn’t even recognise, but it started with bubblegum-pop music and starred someone from Grey’s Anatomy, so Ashley was in heaven. Belle spent more time staring at her phone, willing herself to put it down.

Of course, it was the moment she put it on the duvet and focused on the movie that it vibrated.

“Ooh!” Ruby beamed, “Who is it texting at this hour, Belle?” 

Belle tried not to show anything on her face - Mr Gold didn’t text, he didn’t, but there it was - “It’s just… Mary Margaret.” She improvised, “She wants to know if we have any flowers in the shop she could use for some class project.”

Are you alright, dearie? He always used full grammar and vocabulary, even texting, and she could hear his voice in her head, Haven’t seen you around, lately.

Been busy, she sent back, sorry.

No kisses, no smiley faces. She wasn’t playing the cute and flirty game anymore: let him come for her, if he wanted her. Let him be the vulnerable one for a change.

She should turn off her phone, throw it in her handbag, and enjoy getting drunk and staring at random hot celebrity men.

She turned her phone onto ‘meeting’ mode, though, so it wouldn’t even vibrate. No point getting questions from the others if he decided to reply.

She glanced back a minute later: one new message.

Her heart was hammering, but she couldn’t explain why. She had been sleeping with this guy on a regular basis for months: she had no reason to be nervous now.

Where are you now?

A bolt of anger ran through her: why should he care where she was? She was just an ‘obliging young woman’, apparently. Someone he liked to screw when he felt bored. Maybe that was it: maybe he was bored.

But then, so was she. And she missed him, however horrified she was with herself to admit it. Why couldn’t she just let it go? Just accept that he was exactly the bastard she had started their relationship by denying, and move on with her life?

She knew the answer to that: she’d fallen in love with him, hard and fast and early on, and now she was paying the price.

None of ur bsns stalker. She replied, and then left the phone for five whole minutes before checking back.

I’m owed a meeting, dearie the reply read.

That decided it: it was time to just ignore him and let him be bored. Let him find another plaything, she was worth more than that.

But when she did look back - she was checking the time, of course she was - there was another text.

And I miss you. I hope you’re alright.

Her heart melted. 

Im fine she replied, stayin over w/Ruby n Ash

She could almost hear him laughing at that; she didn’t set her phone down.

And how is Miss Boyd? Only Gold could smirk by text. It was a superpower.

Shes fine, so’s the baby. She replied, pointedly.

Good. You’re at the inn?

She was tempted not to answer that: she had no idea what he would do, but she had planned a night to get over him, not to go running back. Then again, hadn’t she been asking for him to come after her, for a change? Didn’t she miss him like a hacked-off limb, for all that it hurt being attached?

Yes.

There was no reply, for a long time, and she was left to sit with a churning stomach and no interest at all in the movie. Not that she’d cared much to begin with, but still.

“Who was texting?” Ruby asked, after a little while longer.

“Still Mary Margaret.” Belle answered, the lie coming easily from her lips.

“It’s like, midnight,” Ruby said, “You’d think it could wait until morning.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Of course you don’t.” Ruby scoffed, “You’re too easy.”

“What’s up?” Ashley looked from the screen to her friends.

“Belle’s answering texts at midnight from someone other than a hot guy.”

No, she wasn’t. But she could hardly tell them that. It made her feel a little miserable, keeping such a secret from them, but she couldn’t trust that it wouldn’t get leaked. Neither of them would have anything to lose from telling, not like Belle or Gold, and so it’d be so easy to ruin everything.

No, better to lie. Better to keep her mouth shut.

“Fine, fine!” Belle put her phone down, “She’s done, I think, anyway.”

“Good.” Ruby nodded, and the matter seemed put to rest.

Until she glanced down, and there was another message.

Come out front.

Nothing else, no indication of why or when or how. Just the instruction.

’No’ was hovering on her fingertips.

But she missed him more with every word exchanged, and if she heard Ashley mention Sean one more time she would scream, and Ruby wasn’t always right. She needed to see him, if only to know if this was worth continuing.

“Guys,” she sighed, “I’m getting a headache, I’m just going to step outside and get some air.”

“At midnight?” Ashley asked, surprised.

“I just… yeah. I might be getting a migraine, and being outside at night helps.” She should get an honorary degree in bullshit, for all the lies she was spinning tonight.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry!” Ashley nodded, “We’ll wait, take all the time you need.”

“Thanks.” Belle nodded, feeling only a little guilty as she grabbed her coat and shoes - March in Maine wasn’t exactly balmy - and slipped outside.

She padded down the hallway, the stairs, and out the door. She sat herself down on the doorstep, and stared at the sky. The air was crisp and cold, fresh, and she realised that this was what she needed, even if he didn’t show. She almost expected him not to, she was so fed up with him right then.

But then there was a whisper of cigarette smoke on the breeze, and a scent she knew far too well, and he sat down heavily next to her, his leg stretched out in front of him.

Wordlessly, he offered her the roll-up. She took it, and took a drag, the smoke filling her lungs calming her instantly. “Thanks.”

“No problem, dear.” He replied, and his voice rolled over her like waves, more calming even than the nicotine. She was hooked on him, some kind of wasted crack addict coming back for more, and she didn’t risk a look in his direction.

“What’re you doing here?” she asked, after a moment.

“You missed our meeting,” he said, “I was worried you’d been murdered by the flu.”

She made an odd little laughing, choking sound, and took another drag, “Well, my texting back should have soothed that concern.”

“Are you sure you’re alright, dearie?” he asked, and she could feel his concerned little frown even as she refused to look at it, “You seem a little… off.”

“I’m fine.” She plastered a fake smile on her face, “Just peachy.”

She wasn’t. She was sat not two inches from the man she was hopelessly, helplessly, and agonisingly in love with, and she couldn’t say a word. But so what? He didn’t love her, but at least he wanted her. That had to count for something, had to be at least one small comfort.

“Then where were you on Wednesday?”

“The park.”

Was it possible that he had come looking for her? That he had missed her?

“Do you wish to call off our deal?” he asked, after a long moment.

And there, that was the million dollar question. Because yes, she did, she wanted to cancel every little part of their arrangement and go out on a date. She wanted to love him and be loved back. She wanted cuddling on Sunday mornings in bed and roses on her doorstep, as well as the harsh fucking in alleyways and kitchen counters.

She wanted both, and it hurt to want everything and nothing at the same time.

She turned to face him, finally, and there was nothing at all to read on his face. He was just looking at him, dark eyes boring into hers, and she felt he could probably move whole mountains with the force of that stare.

So she ran away, the way she always did, the brave question (would we still see each other? Could we be together?) stuck in her throat, a coward taking the wheel. She leaned in and kissed him, tabacco on her tongue and his, lips working against his mouth furiously, trying to dull every little pain she’d had since they parted in her bedroom almost a week ago with just this contact. 

He tasted of whiskey, and she wondered if he’d been drinking. She probably reeked of cheap alcopops and white wine, and their kissing was a little messier, more desperate, as a result.

He groaned and took control of the kiss, his hands sliding into her hair and holding her against him.

There was no one around. Ashley and Ruby’s room faced the other direction, the inn never had guests and Granny was in bed hours ago. There was no one to see them.

She kissed him again and again, hot and deep, desperate to lose herself in him, in the fact that he came here for her, that he wanted her. She held onto him like he was the only thing keeping her alive, and he was holding her head so hard it almost hurt. The little scrapes of his blunt fingers against her scalp felt incredible. 

“I missed you too.” She said, when they parted for air, her hand behind his neck, unable to tear her eyes from his face now that she’s had one look. The memory of him leaving, of his brush-offs and lack of care, ripped through her even then. But still she could not look away.

“Come with me.” He said, and there was an oddly reckless look in his eyes.

“What?”

“Your father expects you gone for the night anyway, yes?” he asked, staring at her as hard as she did him.

“Yes.” She nodded, “Not until tomorrow evening.”

“Then… come back with me. Stay the night.”

Her heart pounded, hard and hot and fast in her ears, terrified and wonderful and excited all at once. “That’s not our deal.” She reminded him, but her smile was unstoppable, “That’s a little… couple-y.”

The alcohol was making her reckless too, it seemed, but it needed saying. If he was going to back out, he needed to do it now while she still had a heart to mend.

“All I offer is a bed and some company, Belle,” he reminded her, gently, “But tonight we can be together a little longer than usual. Or you can say no, and we can see each other tomorrow as normal or Wednesday, whatever suits, and you can go back to your friends.”

“You act as if I have a choice.” She giggled, a hollow, desperate little sound, and perhaps she was more drunk on his lips even than the vodka in her drink.

“Everyone has a choice, dearie. Just make sure it’s the right one.”

She looked at him as if he would tell her the answer then and there. As if he could let her know how much tomorrow would hurt if she said yes and then had to leave come daybreak.

She had never stayed at his home before, always gone before midnight. 

But it was midnight already - the clock chimed then and there, as if to prove the point - and the rules had been crumbling for a while now.

She wanted to walk away with what was left of her heart.

She wanted to be with him all night and all the next day; to see him rumpled from sleep in the morning and know what he ate for breakfast, and every other silly little domestic thing her girlish heart wondered about.

She would keep in mind that this was all just sex, always just that and nothing more. That anything else was a private little fantasy to be kept within her head.

“Give me five minutes; wait in the car.” She said, and hurried back inside.


	2. Sunday, The Small Hours

Gold had to wonder if he was making a phenomenally stupid mistake here

This week was doomed to be full of them, it seemed. First visiting her on Monday and allowing the cold mask to slip just a little - if she saw truly what was beneath, how much he belonged to her and needed her, then the world would come crashing down around their ears - and then Wednesday. Wednesday had been a disaster.

He wanted to know if she was still speaking to him, after he’d left so suddenly before. He knew he’d been a bastard - done his best to be, as a matter of fact - but he needed to know how much damage it had really done.

She was on-edge, tense and closed off around him in a way she’d never been before.

And now he was stealing her away in the night, promising hours together and things she had described as ‘couple-y’, in a voice both bitter and heartbreakingly hopeful.

He was walking on the very edge of a knife here: too much and she’d push him more than he could take, and they’d be making promises and sweet devotions by daybreak. Too little and she’d be shattered for good, and he couldn’t bear to hurt her again. 

Not that much: not too much. Enough to bend but not to break: the creed he had lived by for centuries, it seemed.

Belle would forgive him. The real Belle, the girl who was his maid and his saviour and his prisoner. The one who had supposedly died. When he explained this to her, she would forgive him.

It wasn’t an excuse to take this weaker version, this Isabelle, and break her for his own selfish reasons.

And yet he did so anyway, he supposed because he could. No one ever admitted that it was the weak, in the end, who tore down the strong, not the other way around.

He should wait outside the car, explain that this was a mistake - an early morning tomorrow, perhaps, or his house was unfit for use, or the vision of her father catching them which had worked so well in the past - and leave alone.

But at that very moment, the passenger side door swung open, and Belle plopped herself down in the seat throwing her duffle-bag over the backs of the chairs. Her overnight things, he assumed.

“You’re sure about this?” she asked, and she’d never sounded so hostile. Why should she be hostile now? This was what she wanted, was it not?

“Are you?” a question for a question: once they had been so ready with answers.

“No.” She said, and at least the honesty was still there. She lied to everyone else but at least he received the truth.

“I could drop you back at home,” he offered, quietly, “Drive home on my own and we continue as normal. You don’t have to do this.”

He offered an out he knew would be refused: she would come with him. She would always follow him just as he would always take that trust, all that love and faith he did not deserve, and use them as weapons to break her. This was their pattern.

And, as was becoming their pattern, she avoided having to answer at all by leaning over and kissing him, crushing her lips to his and gripping the sides of his head so hard it almost hurt. He couldn’t help but respond, kiss her back with a ferocity that easily matched her own. 

They parted, breathing heavily, and he swallowed hard, “Right, home it is.”

She smiled at him - he missed that smile when it wasn’t around, the one she wore all the time when they had first started this stupid enterprise - and nodded, “Okay.”

The drive back was silent, and she finally put the radio on. Some station from Boston filled the car, playing a song he didn’t recognise. Belle was tapping along on the dashboard, though, her lips parting to silently mouth the words.

“Who is this?” he asked, more as something to say to break through the tension than out of any real curiosity.

“Lana del Rey.” She replied, but she didn’t sound too enthusiastic, “Not the best, but it gets stuck in your head.” She shot him an apologetic little smile, “I can turn it off, of you’d like?”

“The player’s had an unbearable Christmas CD stuck in it from years back.” He told her, drawing on his time as Mr Gold, before Emma arrived and Rumpelstiltskin returned, to supplement his memories, “Unless you fancy Wham for the rest of the journey, I believe this will have to do.”

He certainly didn’t feel like talking. Talking with her in this mood would only lead to things said that shouldn’t be heard.

“I’ll change the station, at least.” She compromised, and fiddled with the dials for a moment before landing on something that proclaimed itself Oldies Hour. Much like when he had first tasted tobacco in this world - from Belle’s own mouth, as a matter of fact - had had a sudden flash of memories from his supposed-youth. The Curse re-exerting itself once again: as if he needed reminding.

Belle was looking at him expectantly, “This any better?”

“This one’s bloody miserable, love.” He said, but he didn’t ask her to change it.

“Do you know it?”

He thought for a moment, before a name and a title presented themselves as if they’d always been there, “Tracy Chapman, Fast Car.”

She made a noncommittal noise, nodded, and they lapsed into silence again. The slow guitar and smooth voice were, at least, preferable to the loud and driving beat of the song before, even if ‘bloody miserable’ was an accurate summary of the lyrics.

They pulled up in front of his house, and the song stopped suddenly as he pulled the key from the ignition. Neither one of them moved.

“So.” She said, but seemed disinclined to say anything more.

“So,” he had no idea how, but they’d gone from quiet companionship to outright awkward with just the parking of the car, and he had no idea what to say next. “I’ll get your bag, you go unlock the door.”

He handed her his house keys, and she stared at them a moment, an unreadable expression on her pretty face. Then she nodded, and got out of the car, scampering up the path to his front door without a glance back. Her duffle was easy enough to haul from the backseat and after her - all she could have in there was clothes and a wash-bag, after all - and she was only just getting the door open when he came to join her.

She flipped the light switch - she came over here enough to know by now how his home worked - and the hallway was flooded with light. 

He closed the door behind them, and the sound had a certain finality to it. This was it: they were spending the night together. 

She seemed to hear it too, because she turned to look at him with eyes a little too wide, desperate and happy and miserable all at once. Rumpelstiltskin’s cowardice didn’t leave when Mr Gold came into existence: he couldn’t stand to look at those eyes any longer.

So he flashed her a smile, the smile he always showed her right before he was about to start something, and dropped her bag to the floor. In moments, he had his hands on her hips, her back pressed hard against the wall and his lips covering hers. He kissed her desperately, messily, all tongue and teeth and lips. She tasted of sugar and alcohol, and the cherry lipgloss she must have applied while he waited in the car. 

She made a helpless little moaning noise, and he considered it a victory. He didn’t allow her any control, plundered her mouth as her hands wove in his hair, clinging on for dear life. 

His hands roamed everywhere, down to trace the curve of her ass, holding her firmer against him, then up to flutter along the edges of her rib cage, thumbs sweeping under her breasts beneath her cardigan, the heat of her skin radiating through the thin cotton of her t-shirt.

She had slipped her mouth away from his, was running her lips along his jaw, and he took the initiative, dipping his head so he could kiss along the column of her throat, to find every little sensitive spot he’d catalogued over the past months and exploit them mercilessly. She arched her neck with a gasp, and he could feel her shaking against him, clutching him ever closer.

This was what they could have, this and no more. And she had to know it, had to understand that this was what they were.

But suddenly, she was pushing him away by his shoulders, “Bedroom,” she gasped, “We have all night.”

He nodded, swallowing hard around the idea of having her in his bed. They’d never even gone upstairs before: the stairs and kitchen and sofa, even the arm chair and the dining room table, had all been well employed. He’d never lead her upstairs.

But he’d invited her here, so this was how it would go.

He took her hand - he never held her hand, never, but it was warm and soft and deceptively small and fragile in his - and she took her bag over her other arm. They climbed the stairs together, not speaking. They never seemed to speak anymore.

Once, their relationship had been built on words, insubstantial and monumental. Now they were all action, hurried movements to remove clothing and have skin against skin, and words only got in the way. Words only made it real.

She went into his room ahead of him, and he followed, closing the door behind them once more. He gave her a moment to look around - the room was cluttered as was every other in his home, but where the rest was full of useless trinkets and ‘comforts’, this one room was free from Regina’s ironies. 

Here he had the cup, the one she chipped in another life, and the leather football he was too afraid to display in the shop. Here he had the things from the Dark Castle that he considered precious, along with all his books.

She’d read half of them: she had no idea.

He couldn’t stand it any longer: he came up behind her, hands on her hips and lips at her ear, “Enjoying the view, dearie?”

“You’re a magpie,” she said, but her voice was a little lighter and brighter than it had been before. She was comfortable here: he shouldn’t have felt anything like the fierce joy he did at that.

She’d be gone by morning, she had to be.

—

Gold’s room was simultaneously exactly what Belle had expected and nothing like it at all. She supposed she had imagined that it’d be stark and bare, like a monk’s quarters, although solemn and chaste he certainly was not. She had imprinted her sheer lack of knowledge about his past, his true thoughts and interests, onto this room: anything more than a cell and cot would have been a surprise of a kind, she supposed.

She leaned back, somehow daringly, her back flush against his front. For a moment, everything was still, his hands still gripping her hips, his chin simply rested on her shoulder.

And then the moment was broken, and he was growling against her skin, his lips working from the edge of her t-shirt on her collarbone up her neck and back again, on the side he’d neglected downstairs.

She shivered against him; she couldn’t help it. One hand came from her side to hold the back of his head, keep him in place as she arched back against him, a small sigh escaping her lips.

He instantly moved his head up, encouraged her to crane her neck around so he could claim her mouth in a messy kiss. She turned in his arms, lips still glued to his, every inch of her pressed against him, as close as could be with clothing still on. Her hands threaded into his hair as his went back to skimming her sides, touching without truly feeling anything. 

She could feel him pressing against her belly, and yet all he did was nibble her lips and stroke her tongue, move in slow little patterns over her back, nowhere outside the safe zones. She whimpered a little demandingly, kissed him deeper and bucked her hips against him, hoping he’d get the hint.

All he did was pull back and smirk at her, forehead against hers, hands on her shoulders, “Patience, precious thing,” he breathed into the space between them, “We have all night, after all.”

She felt a little bolt of heat run through her at his words, at the meaning behind them, the dark intent.

She caught him by his tie, surprising him enough that when she grinned and pulled he followed unthinkingly. She sat herself down on the bed, still holding his tie, and he stood before her. 

“Patience,” she said, looking up at him, “Is what I’ve had for the past six months.” She moved her hands from his tie down his shirt front, over his hips but past the place she knew he’d want her. “Patience,” she continued, rubbing slow circles against his thighs with her thumbs, “Is what I have whenever I’m not with you, and I want to be.” She leaned forward, caught his zipper in her teeth and dragged it down. She heard his breath catch, his hand come to cup her face and bring her to face him.

“Belle-“

“Patience,” she cut him off, her voice carrying a note of steel to it, as she shook his hand from her, “Is perhaps fine for you, but I’ve had enough of it.”

She leaned forward, purposefully, and ran her tongue over him through the silk of his boxers. He made a strangled little noise, his hips shunting shamelessly toward her, and with another little growl he had gripped her shoulders and shoved her backward, falling on top of her and pinning her to the bed. He ground his hips against her forcefully, and she giggled, petting his hair.

“We have all night.” He reminded her, pinning her hands above her head with his own, weaving her fingers between his. He leaned down to nip at her throat, “Remember?”

She squirmed beneath him, undeniably pleased at this turn of events, “So what are we waiting for?”

He went still for just a moment, looking at her with another of those odd little expressions. He looked about to answer her, and she was worried for what he might say. Even here, in his bed with the whole night before them, she was scared that he could say something to ruin everything.

So she didn’t let him answer, leaned upward to kiss him again instead. She slipped her tongue between his lips and plundered his mouth, and he groaned against her, the tension slipping from his body as easy as it had come.

She took advantage of his distraction to spin them over, so she was straddling his hips and her hands now pinned him. She broke their kiss with a smirk and wriggled against him for good measure, and felt him harden still further beneath her.

“You,” he snarled, “Are a wicked little thing.”

“Hmm,” she smiled, pleased, leaning down to nip at his bottom lip and trail little biting kisses across his jaw and to his earlobe, “You were taking too long.”

“I didn’t want to rush,” he replied, his voice low in her ear, that melting tone that sent her reeling just from the sound of it, “Wanted to go slow, take my time with you.”

She squirmed against him again, more for her own benefit than for his, a cascade of images running through her mind. She made an embarrassing little moaning noise, and felt him chuckle in response. 

He sighed, “But, I suppose, if you haven’t the patience…”

She scowled at him, and released his hands, but remained leaned over him, braced on her forearms on either side of his head. He was smirking at her: he knew he had her, and was enjoying every moment of it.

“We do have all night…” she allowed, and he gave her the dirtiest little wink she’d ever seen. 

“Indeed we do.” 

“What did you…” she paused, suddenly shy for no reason she could explain, “What did you have in mind?”

“Hmm,” he considered, his hands caressing the skin of her hips through her jeans. She yelped in surprise when he flipped them over, so she was beneath him once more, “This’d be a good start.”

One of his hands came to stroke the side of her neck, fingertips just brushing the bare skin, trailing over in light little patterns that made her shiver. “Taking my time,” he rumbled into her ear, before licking her earlobe and causing yet another shiver down her spine, “Is easier this way.”

He pulled back and smirked at the flush in her cheeks, achieved with just a few words, and gentle little touches. Those same fingers trailed down from her neck to the collar of her t-shirt - the loose, comfy one she’d worn to Ruby’s - and along the neckline, before moving down to lightly scrap against one breast, “Also easier without all this clothing, hm?” he suggested.

She nodded, and shifted back and away from him, so they were vertical on the bed, her head on the soft pillows. She was about to reach down to pull the shirt over her head, but the look in his eyes stopped her.

Slowly, he pulled the hem from her waist and up, fingertips spidering over every inch of exposed skin, over her ribs and the curve of her waist, thumbs stroking the undersides of her breasts. She hadn’t been wearing a bra - no need, it being a girls’ night - and he smirked at her, pleased. “And up.” He whispered, and she raised her shoulders and neck, so she could wriggle out of the garment.

The motion had her squirming against him, and his eyes fluttered closed, briefly. She smiled, “Are you sure you have the patience to ah, take your time?”

He raised an eyebrow at her. She giggled as his eyes swept down over her exposed torso, his tongue darting out to wet her lips. She knew that look: it was the one he wore when he planned to devour her whole.

“Are you questioning my stamina, dearie?” he asked, “That’s quite the insult, considering past experience.”

“Well, you know,” she leaned up, nipped at his lower lip, “Past experience being what it is… maybe ‘all night’ is a bit of a challenge.”

“I’ll give you a challenge,” he snarled, and she giggled as he buried his lips in the side of her neck, running his tongue over every inch of skin his eager lips could find, sucking hard when he found a spot that made her gasp and shiver against him. Her hands came to weave in his hair and hold him in place, but he was already moving down over her collarbone to the tops of her breasts.

And then he just stopped, and smirked at her flushed face and bright eyes, “What?”

“I just don’t know how you’re going to last,” he said, pouting in mock-sympathy, “If you react so strongly to just that.”

“Oh, that is it.” She locked her legs around his upper thighs and pulled up, lining them up so that, through his suit pants and her jeans, they were perfectly aligned. She ground against him from beneath, and he groaned, his cock already hard against her. “Stop teasing me,” she whispered, “And take some clothes off.”

He nodded, shakily, and scrambled to get his suit jacket off as she worked on his buttons and tie. 

They finally had skin against skin, and Belle held on just a moment longer, the sensation better than anything else in the world.

But the last time she indulged in that for too long, he had done nothing less than take her heart and crush it in his palms, and she wasn’t going to let him do it twice.

So she let him go when he made to move downwards, and arched her back as he ran his lips back over her collarbone, lapping at fresh bruises - his marks, on her skin, hidden by all but a few of her necklines but still there, claiming her as though he wished her to be his - and down, to the swells of her breasts.

She gasped, eyes squeezing shut and back arching, as his lips clasped around one nipple, tongue stabbing at the hard little bud, sending little bursts of fire through her body. Her hands came to grasp the back of his head, but he was already moving across to the other, performing the same glorious dance of teeth and tongue until she was whimpering, hips bucking against him. 

One hard thigh slipped between hers, and she shamelessly ground against it, desperate to release some of the ache between her legs. He looked up from his work, hair mussed and wild from her hands running through it, and smiled languidly, “Anxious, sweet?” he asked, pushing his thigh a little harder against her, the sensation only magnified by the clothing separating them.

“You’re a bastard,” she snarled, and moved her hands between them to start work on his flies.

He was all too ready to help her, and between them they made it to a point where they were divested of all but his boxers and her knickers. She glanced down and snickered, “Gold boxer shorts, really? Who’re you, Mohammad Ali?”

“Didn’t seem to mind when you were mouthing me through them,” he countered, resuming his position between her legs and pressing a kiss to her mouth, “Hm?”

“Well, I couldn’t see them then. I can’t usually see things that are already in my mouth.” She replied, and just for effect she ran her fingertips over her parted, kiss-swollen lips. He swallowed hard, and she smiled in victory.

“Little tease,” he growled, and swooped down to plunder her mouth, lips working furiously against hers as he found every secret little place that made her whimper and hold him closer. She sucked on his tongue for a moment, and shivered when he made a strangled little groan and arched against her.

They broke apart breathing hard, and he brushed over her cheekbone to reach her ear, “Now, hold still.” He breathed, and she nodded, shakily.

He smirked against her skin, and moved downward, bestowing little biting kisses to the undersides of her breasts, the bottom of her ribs - which made her squeal and squirm, the sensation so strange - across her stomach. His tongue dipped into her navel, and she wriggled, knowing perfectly well where he was going and impatient for him to hurry up and get there already.

He spent what felt like an eternity mapping her torso with lips and tongue and fingers, finding odd little places that made her whimper and arch against him and exploiting them mercilessly. Her desperate little noises made him chuckle against her skin, and the vibration was the sweetest kind of torture.

He swirled around her hip, and blew cold air over the newly-wetted skin, drawing another surprised little gasp from her lips.

“Something you want, dear?” he asked, drawing her panties down so slowly over her legs, so the lace whispered against her skin. She was tempted to just murder him with his own goddamn tie.

“You know what,” she said, “You know.”

“I do…” he agreed, lapping once more at her hip and scraping his teeth a little as he went, “But I want to hear it. Beg for me, Belle, beg for what you want…”

“Please…” it was more of a sigh than a spoken word, “Please, please…”

“Please what?” he prompted, and oh, she lived for moments likes these.

She looked down at him, at his dark eyes and gleaming, smirking mouth, and smiled, “Fuck me with your mouth.” She purred, swallowing down any embarrassment she felt with the knowledge that she was as much in control here as he was, enjoying the way his jaw went slack.

“There it is,” he hummed, approvingly, nodding as he got his wits together, “Such a good girl.” And suddenly, his lips and tongue were right where she wanted, cleaving between her folds and hitting all the right little places to make her keen and squirm. He strove to drive her insane, lapping at her pussy and sucking on her clit in irregular, erratic little motions, making her mewl and cry out in surprise, her legs wrapping themselves almost automatically around his shoulders. 

He alternated randomly between long licks, his tongue flat and hot against her, and short, sharp swipes to her clit, the occasional little scrape of teeth making her whimper each time. The lack of a rhythm drove her wild, kept her on edge as she shamelessly ground against him, trying to get him as close as possible, his mouth on her, in her, all around her, hot and wet and everywhere, and her cries had become screams. She was rocking her hips against his mouth on her pussy to get as much pressure as she could, the sensation almost too much to bear. 

She was so close, so close, but every time she thought she would fall he’d pull back, bestowing wet kisses to the insides of her thighs, away from where she needed him. He waited for her to calm down a little, for her breathing to settle, before cleaving his tongue back into her and building her right back up again.

By the third time she was screaming in frustration, gripping the back of his head almost to force him back to work.

He snickered, and she groaned, flopping her head back against the pillow. Without warning, he drove two fingers up deep inside her, curled at just the right angle to make her whole body convulse and spasm around him, pleasure roaring through her as he licked and licked and licked at her. Her clit was drawn between his lips as he sucked hard, the fingers inside her thrusting in and out as she rode out her orgasm, hips pounding of their own accord against the sheets.

When she finally came down from her high, her body was limp and slumped against the bedclothes. He continued to kiss her, softly and almost soothingly, his lips soft against her aching flesh. 

She could feel his eyes on her, the pressure of his weight on her stomach, even as she stared at the ceiling and tried to catch her breath. She looked down, and found him settled on the bed, laying still between her legs, his head on his hands, folded on her stomach, his weight braced on his elbows on either side of her.

His smile was so languid and warm, so tender, that she thought she might melt.

He’d never done that before, taken so long and worked so hard to bring her off. He’d gone down on her before, plenty of times, and he knew the places to make her come in minutes. He’d been telling the truth: he was planning on taking his time with her.

She dragged him up to her by his shoulders, and kissed him hard. She could taste herself on his tongue, and it sent her reeling as she clutched him closer, and he kissed her back furiously.

“What was that for?” he asked, as they broke apart for air and she was kissing his cheeks, his jaw, his earlobe.

“I like it when you take your time.” She whispered, and felt him shiver against her.

“And why’s that?” he teased, as she gently rolled them over so that she was straddling him, leaning down to meet his forehead with hers. They were concealed in the curtains of her hair; a soft, warm, private little den.

“Because we never have enough of it.” She replied, and pressed a soft, almost chaste, kiss to his lips. 

He was staring at her, and she couldn’t tell at all what the emotion was on his face. 

She wanted to tell him, here and now, with them both stripped down to bare skin, so close that she could die. They were in his bed, and they were alone, and they had more time than they’d ever been granted before. She wanted to tell him that she loved him, deeply and purely and truly, and to fall on her knees and beg him not to turn her away.

The words, three words and eight letters, beautiful and horrible and wonderful, hung on her lips.

But she couldn’t say them, not here, not when things were so perfect. Those words were like a thrown stone to their strange and wicked house of cards, and there was no way that it would remain standing once they were spoken.

She would tell him, and soon. But not tonight. Tonight was about time, not love, never love, and that was important to remember.

His hands had taken hold of her hips, and she ground down against him, her slick centre sliding against his hard cock through the damp silk of his boxers.

“Let’s take these off,” she said, “Shall we?”

He nodded, and she giggled at the sheer eagerness of the motion. He wriggled his hips as she knelt up and pulled them down, and with a little more effort he was free of them, and the silly things were thrown to join the rest of their discarded clothing.

“Do you want this?” she asked, the question redundant but so very important, “Now?”

“Yes.” He half-groaned, half-gasped as she took his hard length in her hand, stroking him in her palm.

“No more taking time?” she mocked, his need so much more desperate than hers for once. She was more than ready to go again - these days, he only had to look at her right and smile and she was wanting him naked - but she’d already come once. It was nice, she thought, smirking, to have him entirely at her mercy.

“Belle…” he groaned, pushing his hips up demandingly, and she gave him another quick stroke, the sight of him naked and begging for her intoxicating.

“Answer me, Mr Gold,” she purred, “Are we done with patience?”

“Yes, fine,” he nodded, his hands on her hips squeezed, trying to line them up, but she squirmed away at the last moment. She giggled in victory, but it turned to a whimpering moan as the blunt head of his cock grazed her oversensitive clit.

His eyes blinked open, and he smirked at her, “No more patience, then?”

“Agreed.” She nodded, frantically, and slipped back a little, so he was lined up perfectly with her entrance. His eyes on her in the golden lamplight made her warm all over, and she gasped, her back arching as he slipped inside her. She worked herself slowly down the whole length, sobbing with pleasure when he was buried in her to the hilt.

For just a moment, everything was dark, silent and still. Their breathing practically echoed through the midnight quiet; one breath in, one out.

And then he had pulled her down to kiss her frantically, and his other hand was pumping her hips up and down as he drove into her, hot and hard and deep. They set up a punishing rhythm that had her crying out against his mouth, their kiss a messy pressing of mouths, all finesse lost as he pounded up into her, and she plunged down hard to meet every driving thrust.

From her angle atop him, bent at the waist to press her face to his, his cock grazed her clit with every sudden movement in or out of her dripping pussy. The feeling was unbearable, the thrusts so hard and deep that they were just the right side of pain, the pleasure shooting from where they were joined and racing through her whole body.

He was holding her hands, entwined where she braced her forearms on the mattress. They held hands as he took her hard and deep. Their fingers entwined like the gentlest, tenderest of lovers, even as they fucked like the world was ending.

It was the combination Belle had most hoped for, most ardently dreamed of, and it lasted for mere minutes as she rode him into his bed.

And then she twisted her hips a little, and the angle was hitting someplace hot and wonderful inside her, sending fireworks through her shattered body as he groaned and twisted beneath her.

She could have sworn they reached completion at the exact same moment, as their kisses turned furious and he groaned like he was dying against her lips as she screamed, helpless, tiny cries of pleasure into his mouth. 

They moved erratically, rough and uncontrolled, as they rode out their climaxes and burned into each other. Belle was on fire, incandescent with one of his hands buried in her hair, the other holding her hip, as they shuddered together, riding the aftershocks.

She collapsed on top of him, and he slipped out of her. They had just enough energy to get the duvet on top of them instead of beneath, before she was curled into his side and his arms were around her, and both of them sound asleep.


	3. Sunday, The Rest Of The Morning

Gold awoke a hour later, and saw the night still dark outside through the open curtains. He rolled away from Belle - they shouldn’t have been cuddling, this was all wrong, and gods above he’d known this was a bad idea - and pulled his robe from the hook by his bed, wrapping it around himself for modesty. He crossed to the window and closed the drapes, locking out the streetlight that had illuminated the room.

He could hear her stirring - she was a light sleeper, apparently, this Belle; his Belle had slept like the dead, and had once fallen out of her bed and simply slept through it, snuggled in her duvet on the floor - and her eyes blinked open.

“Rum?” she said, her voice thick with sleep, and she hadn’t used her name for him since the night he left her sick in her bed. The night he’d hurt her more than he had realised, and he’d forgotten that not everyone was as restrained in emotion, as adept at locking down and closing up, as he was. 

Some people were good and warm, with soft and tender hearts: some people didn’t have a well of self-loathing and evil to draw upon when that same heart started to beat.

“I’m here, sweet,” he assured her, and with it made a promise to himself. They had until the sun came up, to act as lovers and be sweet to one another. The time limit saddened him, hurt him enough to keep the raw happiness at bay, and the Curse from calling at their door. “Just closing the curtains.”

“C’mere.” She mumbled, rolling over a little so he had room to sit on the side of the bed. He was pulled to her like a puppet on strings, and was soon sat right next to her, and pulled down by his neck for a deep kiss. There was no battling, now, no ferocity: they kissed with a languid, melting kind of ease that turned his blood to molasses.

She broke away from him after a few seconds with a slow, contented sigh. Her hand slipped from his neck to the collar of his robe, and she frowned, “Clothes?” she looked up at him, her sleepy bewilderment almost childlike and utterly adorable, “What time is it?”

“Around two am, dear,” he told her.

“Then why’re you up?” she asked, “And wearing things? I don’t like you wearing things.”

“So you’ve said.” He chuckled, and then hissed as she slipped her hands under his robe and scratched her nails over his chest.

He covered her body with his in moments, her hands having slid up to help him, caressing his back. “Why’re you still wearing it?” she pouted, after allowing her hands to wander down for a moment, now on either side of his waist and just above his hips.

“I honestly couldn’t say,” he smiled - and had he smiled like that, so freely and widely, at any other time he could remember since she left his castle? - and she helped to divest him of the robe and slip him back under the covers. His bed was warm, warmer than he’d ever felt it, heated as it was by another human being. Belle radiated warmth, as she did light and love and sheer, pure beauty, even if it seemed he was the only one who ever truly saw it.

“Mm,” she nodded, and kissed his nose, “Much better.”

He chuckled, and reached for her, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and kissing her a little more heatedly, one hand coming down to tease between her legs, just lightly.

She arched against him, slowly and luxuriantly, catlike. And she was smiling; he didn’t know that he’d ever seen such a contented and beautiful smile as that.

When he took her again, minutes later, it was smooth and easy, warm and soft as opposed to hot and fast. He ran his lips over every inch of her warm skin he could find, as her slim fingers stroked his hair, a small moan of pleasure escaping her whenever he found a particularly good place to nuzzle.

Her gasps in his ear as she came were more like breathy little screams, and they were the most pure and yet the most erotic noises he’d ever heard her make.

Their cycle repeated a couple times more, one of them waking and bringing the other with them, his promise to himself that it would end at daybreak churning in his mind. 

She woke him at three-thirty with her mouth on his cock, kissing him awake in a slightly unconventional manner, her smirking lips brushing the head until he found himself wide awake with his hands buried in her soft, dark hair.

She waited for him to look at her, wide awake and stunned, before she gave a dirty, throaty little chuckle and slipped her mouth around him, taking him in as far as she could before pulling back and sucking hard.

It was one of the highlights of his long, sad life, he thought: waking up to a smiling, entirely naked Belle between his legs, kissing his cock and watching him as she did it.

He groaned her name, and she took him inside again, bringing her hand up to pump at the base as she swirled her tongue about the head.

He was helpless, held captive by her warm, wet mouth hot little hands, and his hips shook as he tried not to buck shamelessly into her mouth, tried not to hurt or force her.

He needn’t have worried: she scraped her teeth just lightly along the bottom of his shaft, and he gasped her name, thrusting up against her involuntarily. She only laughed, and adjusted her position so that he wouldn’t gag her, and made him do it again.

He came in her mouth only minutes later, and she swallowed every drop. He’d learned not to try to stop her: if she’d wanted not to, as she had more than a few times, she would stop him herself. When Belle decided a decision belonged to her, Gold tried not to take that power from her. 

He pulled her up by her shoulders and crushed her against him. She giggled, so soft and warm in his arms, and petted his hair, nuzzling against the side of his neck.

They fell asleep that way, her head on his shoulder and his arm holding her against him.

At five am the sun was threatening to rise, and Gold awoke to find her on her front beside him, dozing more than sleeping, he thought. As if she knew that they had perhaps an hour before things would slam back into place, before the spell would break and the loveliness of this night would end.

He ran his lips down her spine, pausing to lick and kiss every other bump he found. She squirmed, half awake but smiling, and he smiled back as he continued. He was almost at her tailbone when she asked, “What’re you doing?”

“Debauching you, dear, just lie still.” He replied, mildly, as if he were simply making a pot of tea and asking if she’d like a cup.

“Hmmm,” she shifted under him, making herself comfortable as he reached her tailbone, “Alright, sounds good to me.” She mumbled into her pillow, her body entirely relaxed as he worked his way back up her spine, finding secret little sensitive places - a few random vertebrae, the sides of her waist, and the skin under her shoulder blades - and paying extra attention there.

He finally rested his head on her shoulder, and ran his tongue around the shell of her ear. He swept his thumbs back beneath shoulder blades, and she shivered.

“Look,” he crooned, “You have wings.”

“I have bones,” she corrected, with a small smile, “Like everyone.”

“You could fly if you wanted to,” he corrected, a little sternly, “Wings like a little bird.”

“Are you going to whisper nonsense to me all morning?” she asked, teasingly, but the question cut a little deep.

No, of course, was the answer. Because the morning would bring stiffness and goodbyes, possibly a little cruelty to really round off his trip to hell, and everything else he wished to avoid entirely with her. And all for the greater good. Gold was starting to understand Regina choosing pure evil and darkness over any shred of hope: the greater good seemed to enjoy forcing him to sacrifice anything he actually cared about.

Again, and again, and again.

He’d sworn to himself once that no one would ever be cruel to her again. And yet here he was, acting as if he planned to never hurt her again, when he knew that a few more hours would have him breaking her heart. It was a necessary sacrifice, better that he hurt her and could explain later than the Curse do something more drastic, or worse, than Regina stick her nose in this once more.

“Not nonsense,”he said, by way of avoiding the question entirely, “All angels have wings.”

“Hmm, you remember,” she smiled contentedly into the pillows, and he ran one hand down her back, just one finger tracing light against her spine.

“Of course I do,” he said, “You plopped yourself down on the barstool next to me, and you declared yourself my guardian angel.”

She laughed, and he was horribly happy to hear a bitter little note to it, even now. Keeping her at bay, keeping the love from taking over them both: bitterness had become a necessary wall, to keep out anything truly good. “Perks are worth it.”

“Are they?” he asked, his tone deceptively light. He shouldn’t be asking such things while he distracted her, one hand running over her ass and his tongue tracing the shell of her ear. But here she was distracted enough to be both honest and unthinking: here he could ask without her overanalysing and drawing conclusions later.

“Sometimes.” She said, “Like…” he reached down further, placed one finger against her entrance, another stroking between her folds, and how she was ready to go again he didn’t know, but she gasped, eyes slamming shut, “Now!”

“I’m sorry it can’t be always, precious,” he whispered, unfairly, as he slid a finger inside and flicked her clit with his thumb, “But you know the rules.”

“The rules…” she gasped, “hurt.”

“But they’re rules nonetheless,” he pointed out, reasonably, “And if you wish to change them then we need to talk.”

“Talk later,” she breathed, as he rubbed his thumb against her in just that way she liked, and her hand reached back to clamp around his forearm, “Fuck now.”

He grinned at her - he was a coward, and always had been, and at least the words were said now even if she hadn’t really heard them - and covered her body with his, pressing his cock where his fingers had been and kissing the back of her neck, the side of her jaw as he teased her with it.

“Rum…” she whined, wriggling back against him, “Hurry up.”

As if she knew this was the last time: the sun was rising and morning would bring silence and fully-clothed conversation, and he would cause her pain. He had promised them both - silently, stood in leathers by a chipped teacup, after he was certain it was already too late to save her any pain, even that caused by a fall from a tower - that he’d do anything to keep her safe and happy.

He didn’t know if what he had to do in a few hours’ time was breaking that promise or keeping his word.

“Rum?” she asked, having noticed he’d gone still above her, “Is something wrong?”

He chuckled, and it only sounded false to his own ears, and leaned down to kiss her temple. “Just admiring the view, love.” He lied.

“Well admire later,” she shifted, impatiently, and the slight shift against his cock focussed his mind wonderfully, “Take me now.”

“Right you are,” he nodded, and grinned as he thrust up inside her, hard, surprising her into crying out. 

It was hot and quick, that final time, with his hand holding her up under her stomach, and her back against his chest, the angle deep and smooth, hitting the right place near-instantly, as his hands stroked the sides of her breasts, and he took her to the rhythm of her soft little cries in his ears and his kisses to her throat. 

They finished quickly, that time, before they fell back down side by side, drowsy and sated.

“Rum?” she said, as his eyes drifted closed.

“Yes, Belle?”

“The rules are horrible.”

“I know, dear, I know.”

He heard nothing more, drifted back asleep until what must have been around ten in the morning, the sun blasting through the cracks in the curtains, and the day truly upon them.

It was time: he moved away from Belle, sprawled like some slumbering, naked goddess on his sheets, and stood to get dressed. He pulled on his suit, and with it his armour, his smirking and almost-vindictive face. Mr Gold slid over Rum like a well-fitted breastplate, and so he was already in his full suit and tie, leaning on his cane, when Belle awakened half an hour later.

—

He was dressed, watching her, as Belle blinked her eyes open.

She had, it was true, entertained fond fantasies of breakfast together, or at least of awakening in his arms. She had known that that was unlikely, but even so the way he was stood, waiting for her, was perplexing. Almost unsettling.

“Good morning.” She said, rolling onto her back and stretching, “How come you’re up so fast?”

“I have business to attend to, dearie,” he said, and the ‘dearie’ made her stomach tighten: last night she’d been ‘precious’, even ‘little bird’ once or twice, “I thought it best to dress to see you out.”

His coldness was cutting, and her heart was suddenly racing, a lump of dread forming in her throat. He was kicking her out, and she wasn’t even dressed yet.

“Don’t do this.” She said, as she reached down and pulled her t-shirt from the floor. She needed to be modest, at least, to have this conversation.

“Do what?” he asked, all bewilderment, but she knew his lies.

“Act as if we’re nothing. Not again.” She said, and it was hard to be strong and dignified while she was trying to wriggle her underwear on under the bedclothes, but she managed it.

“We’re not nothing, dearie,” he laughed, and she wanted to hurl something heavy at him, “We’re simply done for the night. Our deal for now is concluded, and it’s time for you to get out.”

“You’re an asshole.” She snarled, as she rose from the bed in her t-shirt and underwear and grabbed her fresh clothes from her duffel bag, “And we’re not done here.”

“The bathroom’s down the hall, if you wish for some privacy.”

“Thank you.” She snapped, and didn’t shed a single tear until she had the door locked behind her.

He didn’t love her, not the way she did him. He was a romantic who got caught in the moment when they were in bed, but he didn’t love her. A lover wouldn’t do this: a lover couldn’t look her in the eye and be so cold, so harsh and formal. Once, they’d been happy, she was sure of it. Now they swung between the trembling sweetness she adored, and the cold cruelty that sent her sobbing.

She only shed two tears for him, as she put on her skirt and t-shirt, her make up to cover the tear tracks and brushed out her hair.

She came out poised, calm, ready to rip into the only man she’d ever truly loved.

He rose from the side of the bed - his expression, staring at the indent of her head on her pillow, caught her off guard for a moment - and smiled at her, his bastard smile “All done, then?”

“Yes.” She nodded, jaw clenched, “Done.”

“Are you alright, dearie? You look a little upset.” His solicitous smile was just the wrong side of mocking, and how her love could be two completely separate people she had no idea. But he was, and as much as she had thought they could continue like this, the night before had proven her wrong.

She couldn’t keep falling in love with her funny, sweet, tender lover by night, and then allowing him to treat her like she was nothing come daybreak.

“How can you even ask me that?” she asked, biting out the words. This was a fight they needed to have, and they were going to have it now.

“You’re glaring daggers.”

“Oh, gee, I wonder why. Maybe because I woke up this morning and the same guy who was soft and lovely all night has started treating me like a used-up whore.” She spat, “I would leave, you know, if you asked nicely. If we talked about it. There’s no need to be a bastard about it.”

“Our deal was for the night,” he reminded her - how could she forget? - his jaw clenched. This wasn’t as easy for him as it had seemed, apparently. Good. The last thing it should have been was easy. “I’m sorry if that upsets you. But we’re done here, and it’s time to leave.”

“You know it upsets me,” she snarled, “But that’s not my problem here. You want me, I know you do, and last night… we’ve never been so good together as we were then. It feels like the nicer you are to me one moment, the more horrid you are the next.”

“You knew I was a monster when you met me, Belle,” he said, and she wasn’t sure whether the anger beneath his cold smile directed more at her or at his own actions, “I’m sorry if I appear too human sometimes.”

“You’re not a monster and you never were. Not until this morning, at least. You keep letting me in and then casting me out like a shameful secret. Everything’s soft and then I hit the ground and something breaks, and I can’t take it anymore.”

“Are you calling off our bargain?” he asked, so calmly she could murder him right then and there.

She gave a hollow little laugh, “Oh yeah, a great good that’d do. I wasn’t supposed to see you last night, you know that, those were the rules, and yet you came anyway. We can’t keep away, we don’t have the strength or the bravery to keep away from each other. So what does it matter if I call it off or not?”

“You always have the choice, dearie.” He said, quietly.

“I never had the choice.” She retorted, “I walk five blocks from my house in any direction, I seem to end up outside your shop or your home, or just watching you across the street. I can’t stop.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?”

She turned eyes of fire and brimstone on him, and was gratified when he flinched just a little, “Because last night was perfect, and now I’m hurting, Gold, and it’s your fault.”

“This was never meant to hurt, was it?” his tone was almost wistful, as he rested against his cane, his eyes downcast, “That was the whole point.”

She was silent a moment, speechless. And then she gave a hysterical little giggle, “You ruin everything.” She laughed at him as she felt the tears welling up, losing her mind and shaking her head, “Even an argument can’t go right with you around.”

“There are two halves to this little arrangement, Belle, and you started it.”

“Because I liked you!” she retorted, “Because you looked lonely and you’re the only person in this goddamn town who doesn’t act like a child in an adult body and you listened to me. Because I thought we had a future!”

“I never lead you on.”

“Oh, really?” she laughed, nodding, her voice horribly hollow and bitter, the shell he made her as he carved out her soft inside and replaced it with iron, but by bit, “What about coming to my bedside with soup and medicine when you knew I wasn’t up for it, and cuddling with me without asking for anything in return? What about spending a whole day traipsing all over town because I hurt myself looking for a book? That wasn’t leading me on that you might actually care about me?”

“You’re a sweet girl,” he said, but his widespread hands were at odds with his inability to meet her eyes, the unease written plain across his face, “I wanted to help.”

“If you’d treated me like a silly little whore from the word go, then this wouldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t have felt anything and the sex would have been enough.”

“I’m sorry-“

“Shut up.” She cut him off, “If you meant that, you wouldn’t have acted like an asshole this morning.”

His expression changed in a moment, and he had her backed against the wall, crowding her, glaring down into her face as if he’d shake her, “This is what I am. You’ve never been able to accept it, but here I am, and this is me. If you can’t deal with that then it’s time for you to leave.”

“But if I leave,” she whispered, unafraid of anything he could do to her. He wouldn’t hurt her, not on purpose, not physically. He wouldn’t break his toys: he wasn’t the type. Cracks were prettier to him than broken pieces. “You’ll be outside my door with a new deal within hours.”

He backed away, staring at her, but she was on a roll, “You like this, deep down, don’t you? Maybe that’s why: you feel something more, and having me hate you helps destroy it. You just can’t stand being good to someone for a change, can you? You have to have everyone hate you, and it’s pathetic.” she mocked him, smirking and cold, every trick and knack he had taught her himself.

“That’s a lie.” He hissed, but all she could do was laugh.

“No, it’s the truth. God, you’re so fucked up it’s almost funny. You feel something for me, I felt it last night, but the moment it’s real you shut down and shove me away. You have to have me hate you because you can’t do the job well enough on your own!”

“You need to stop talking, dearie, you understand nothing.”

But she wouldn’t have stopped for all the world, and if he was going to send her sobbing and screaming and hating eveything, then she was more than happy to return the favour, “Who was it then? The woman who so completely screwed with you?” she laughed, clapped her hands, “Did the Mayor mess with your head and break your heart? Is that why you hate her so much?”

“You’re being ridiculous, now, and it’d be best if you left.” His quiet voice cut through the air, but Belle was too far gone to care.

“No,” she shook her head, “No no no, I’m not leaving now. Not until I know. Who do I have to thank for my heart being used as a plaything and ripped to shreds?”

“No one, dearie, no one but yourself.”

“Shut up. I never did anything to cause this, nothing but try to be the one person in your corner.”

“You’re too brave, standing with monsters.” He snarled, “You should have known better.”

“You’re right.” She nodded, and the sobbing inside her continued but her face was dry and cold as steel, “I should. But I’d do it all again, and so would you, and it kills me knowing that.”

“I never meant to hurt you.” He promised. Her palm whistled through the air as she slapped him across the face, his cheek colliding with her hand with some force.

“Liar!” She accused, “Stop fucking lying to me, come on! Stop being such a coward for five seconds and tell me the truth!” 

He slumped, visibly, his shoulders, sinking and his head bowed. As if she’d knocked the strength right out of him, and he could barely stand, clinging to his cane for support.

“You were meant to be happy, and not care at all. So was I.”

“You knew that was a lie from the very first night. I cared about you from the moment you paid for my drink.”

“And I’ve cared about you since the moment I set eyes on you.” His anger, his coldness, had fallen away, and her Rum was back. And he made her even sicker than the man who so often wore his face, the cruel and heartless Mr Gold, who had tried to hurl her from his home like nothing more than trash.

“If this is how your care feels, Mr Gold,” she didn’t call him ‘Rum’, because no matter how much like her love he looked there, open and fragile and suddenly so very soft and small, he wasn’t a permanent thing. She wouldn’t fall for it, not again: it hurt too much at the end of the dream, “Then please start hating me right this second.”

“I could never hate you, Belle,” he sighed, and suddenly his dark eyes were wide and boring into hers, “I love you.” 

“You…” she blinked, shook her head, brought up short, “What?”

“I love you.” He said again, with more certainty, “And it’s a terrible idea for me even to tell you, but there it is. I love you.”

She felt the tears streaming down her face, but she did nothing to brush them away. “You love me…” she repeated, dazed; her anger had died away, but she had no idea what had replaced it.

“Yes.” He had his hands on either side of her face, brushing the tears away with his thumbs. “Always.” He leaned down, and pressed the softest kiss she’d ever felt against her lips.

Her arms came up of their own accord to wrap around his shoulders, and suddenly they were kissing desperately, his hands cupping her face, and both of them pressed as close as it was possible to be.

They broke apart, and despite everything, all the pain he caused her and all the lies she’d told for him, everything he wouldn’t tell her and everything she wished she could say, she was smiling like the sun.

“I love you too,” she said, and it came out as a wet little giggle, but she could see he heard it.

They didn’t kiss, not again, but his arms were around her so tight and she was clinging to him, the hug somehow so much more important than anything else. This was what he had been holding back, this wholesome and wonderful connection, of just holding and being held. This was what their love was, and how it differed from the lust they’d shared for so long.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” she asked, after a long moment, and he pulled back, looked down at her with the oddest expression on his face.

Despite her euphoria, the look in his eyes made her stomach knot and her heart plummet. “Rum? What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t tell you…” he sighed, heavily, “because it’s better that you don’t know.”

“But you… but I do know. You just told me. I don’t understand…”

“Belle, have you seen happy couples in this town?”

She thought for a moment, “Sean and Ashley are happy.” She said, finally, chin raised. He just nodded.

“For now. But they have a small child and are barely out of their teens. I doubt they’re happy most of the time.”

“But that means nothing, this is… different, we’re not teenagers with a baby!”

“Evidently not,” he said, with a small, lopsided smile, “But the point remains. Storybrooke isn’t kind to people in love, so I thought it best if we didn’t fall into that category.”

“Wait…” she stepped back away from him, frowning, “You… you knew? You knew how I felt about you, and you said nothing anyway?”

“Belle…”

“No, no, just… Monday night, you came over to mine and we were happy. Don’t even deny it, we were happy, Rum. I thought you ruined that because I had been making things up… projecting my feelings onto you… or because you got bored. I didn’t think you did it on purpose!”

“We had a deal,” he said, and his grip on his cane tightened to white knuckles, “Love… love was never a part of our bargain, dearie. I had to drag us back to a place where I couldn’t hurt you harder later on.”

“You’re a real piece of work.” She snarled, “Alright, so Storybrooke is a claustrophobic, backward little town, and the way they went after Mary Margaret with the whole David thing was horrible, but it’s not like there are dark forces driving people apart. You could have just been honest with me.”

“And then what?” he snapped, “You’d make that face, that one there, your eyes like dinner plates and your lip trembling, and that’d be that. I can’t say no to you, Belle, and so I had to stop you from asking at all.”

“Why? Because of my father? Your weird little rivalry with the Mayor? Would they have come and tried to tear us apart? Because I wouldn’t have let them.”

“You wouldn’t have had a choice.” He said, quiet as a graveside, “What if it came down to it, hm? What if the choice arose, what we have and your only surviving family? Between me and your father? Would you be so steadfast then?”

“He wouldn’t…” she started, but her voice was wavering and weak. Because their lives here were dependant on so many little things, and if it came down to her lover or protecting her father from harm, she was a daughter first. And she knew that he understood that.

“A man will do anything to protect his child,” he said, softly, “No father worth the name would allow their daughter to be caught up with the likes of me.”

“He trusts me.”

“Then why haven’t you told him?” he questioned, “You’ve been lying to him about your whereabouts, your company, for over six months now. If there was no chance of him being less than supportive, then why would you do that?”

“You asked me not to.”

“You’re a grown woman with a strong mind, Belle.” He countered, “And you’ve never done anything out of blind obedience.”

“You really believe that something bad would happen if we were together?” She asked, softly, and somehow the words rang true, unease and foreboding building in her belly, “If not my father then the Mayor. She hates you… she would come after us?”

He shrugged, “She cannot stand happiness, dearie, or love being allowed its place. She would do all she could to tear us apart.” He couldn’t meet her eyes, “There’s something dark over this town, Belle, even if both Regina and your father could be pacified. It wouldn’t end well, and we’d be left as strangers, or worse, as enemies. Isn’t what we have better than nothing at all?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was tiny, fragile, and she’d never felt so small or so young. “I just… I love you. And you let me feel like nothing on purpose.” She sniffled, shook her head, her eyes on her shoes. “Because of some stupid bad omen? Because of other people making bad life choices?”

“Because I’m a crippled, evil old man and you’re the most perfect young woman I’ve ever met, in any lifetime.” He sighed, “They’d call me cradle-robber, call it Stockholm Syndrome or believe I was somehow blackmailing you or holding your fathers debts over you. Or worse: they’d think you a whore, with me for the money. We’re a mismatched couple, and the town itself would work to break us apart.”

“I could handle the town.”

“Being an outcast is harder than it looks,” he told her, gently, “Especially when the mob is right: you do deserve someone younger, handsomer, better than me.”

She was exhausted from feeling so much, and it was only ten in the morning.

“So?” she gave a sniffly little laugh, “I love you. I don’t want someone younger, or someone fitter, or even someone nicer. I want you.”

“And it’ll destroy you, if you let it.” He said, quietly, eyes boring into hers.

“It already has.” She admitted, “I spent all of Wednesday hiding from you, trying not to run across town and be with you anyway. And it hurt more than anything, and almost as much as seeing you would have.”

“It’ll only get worse,” he warned, “Every moment we’re together, something new will come to try and rip you to shreds, and take me with it. There’re reasons why we haven’t been together, dearie; there’s a reason love isn’t a part of this equation.”

“Because you’re a coward, and so am I.” She nodded, and curled back against him, arms around his shoulders and his about her waist. She felt his small, sad chuckle against the side of her neck.

“No, Belle. You’re not a coward, love: you’re the bravest woman I ever met.”

She laughed, squeezed him tighter a moment and then pulled back, taking a deep breath to steel herself, “So… maybe you’re right. Maybe being together is the worst idea imaginable.”

He swallowed hard, nodded, “For now, at least.”

“So I try not to love you, and you try not to hurt me, and we pretend today… never happened.” She said, and every word broke her heart, but it was the only idea that could prevent her from losing her mind, “Is that the idea?”

“You… you still want to keep our deal?” he asked, a little stunned, “Even after all this?”

She shrugged, a little bitterly, “It doesn’t seem to matter if we’re in love or if we loathe each other, or even if we just keep lying: we both know that we can’t stay away. So yes. Our deal is the only option.”

“Then… I’ll see you Wednesday.”

She swallowed hard, and nodded, “Wednesday.” She held out her hand for him to shake, and the deal was struck.

She didn’t start crying until she got outside his house, her duffel bag over her shoulder and her heart bleeding inside her chest. 

Only Rum Gold could take a confession of love and turn it so horribly sour. She’d waited months to hear him say those things, to hear that she was loved as much as she loved him, and now the memory just made her ache.

She’d thought that the world would move, and everything would change with that one word. She’d thought it the game changer, the moment everything would shift, and hopefully for the better.

She’d thought love would mean all or nothing: instead, she was still caught in this strange limbo, and everything in her head was a hopeless mess.

He loved her, and it didn’t change a thing.

But at least he loved her. And at least she loved him.

So that was a start.


End file.
